As the coffee finished perking, the first-floor door to the building opened and Holly came rapidly up the stairs. Their office door opened and Digger called, “Coffee’s ready, tardy woman.”

  Holly, breathless, closed the door and took off her deep purple trench coat. “Eight-thirty-one. You never beat me.”

  “Had a busy weekend, but couldn’t sleep.” She finished pouring her own coffee and stood away from the counter so Holly could pour hers.

  The phone rang and Digger answered. “You Think, We Design.” She paused to listen. “Good morning, Abigail.”

  Holly rolled her eyes. They liked their former colleague from the Western Maryland Ad Agency, but these days a call from her meant her current boss, the Chamber of Commerce’s director, wanted them to do something for free.

  “I get it,” Digger said. “Gene wants us to take pictures at the ribbon cutting for the reopening of Suds and Duds, which we would do anyway. Does he want to pay for a photo for the chamber newsletter?”

  She listened for another half-minute. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll give him three pictures, he can use one.” She named a ridiculously low fee and listened again. “I know, I know. But if we don’t charge him something he’ll keep asking for freebies. Then everyone will expect us to be the town photographers.” After another few seconds, she added, “See you over there.”

  She grinned at Holly. “Poor Abigail. Now she’ll have to listen to Gene complain about paying us a pittance.”

  Holly brought the coffee to her desk, which sat in the middle of the large office. “Same old same old.”

  Digger sat at her desk, at the wall on the side of the room opposite the picture window. She turned on the computer. “I forgot to tell you that Marty and I ran into Regina and Tyler when we hiked up to The Knob Sunday. They love the ads you did.”

  “We did. I just heard they’d closed for a time.”

  “Just for a couple of days. They’re repainting. Wednesday will be a grand reopening.” Digger would take a few photos for a modern-day archive she and Holly were creating. They rationalized that if they became the go-to place for photos of the town, maybe other towns, too, they could bring in a little money selling the digital copies.

  Since they’d lost one of their larger clients a few months ago, the two of them had scrambled to find businesses in and near Maple Grove that needed brochures made, photos for publicity they were doing themselves, or mundane things like business order forms. Anything to keep them afloat.

  “Do they still call that big ol’ rock Lover’s Lane?”

  “No, smarty, they took out the stones where people sat. Marty’d never seen it.”

  Holly started to type something. “Uh huh.”

  “Did you know the woman who vanished from up there? Samantha Halloway? Marty took pictures of her boarded-up cottage.”

  “Nope. I think her little girl was in my cousin’s class at school. I guess no one ever heard from them again.”

  “Speaking of people who are hard to find…” Digger waited until Holly looked at her. “I’m learning a lot as I try to find out more about your Washington family ancestors.”

  “Good. Like what?”

  “Uncle Benjamin always said freed slaves sometimes took the family name of their former owner. I found two Washington white families, unrelated I think, near where your Washington ancestors first appeared in 1870.”

  Holly frowned. “First appeared by name, you mean.’

  “Of course. Each of the two White families had a few slaves, and the ages correspond to the Black families I found in 1870.”

  “My Grandmother Audrey said she heard the family picked that name when they were freed. In honor of George Washington, or something like that.”

  Digger nodded. “And that could be true. Lots of Black families chose Washington, Lincoln, and Jefferson.”

  Holly shook her head. “I can’t be at all sure if they adopted a name or picked one. For some reason, Grandmother Audrey has never been too interested in her in-laws’ history.”

  “Kind of natural. I didn’t realize how little I knew about Aunt Clara’s family – Uncle Benjamin’s wife – until just last year.”

  “I guess. I kidded her one time about whether she was hiding something, and she told me to mind my manners.”

  “She’s always felt free to scold me, too. Anyway, for now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to research this as if those families that appeared in 1870 had been slaves in the White Washington families. You okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with anything that fills in the blanks.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MARTY WASN’T ONE TO admit defeat, but he wasn’t coming up with any new information about Samantha and Cherry. He hated to just do a rewrite of earlier updates on their disappearance.

  He decided to try Hamil Halloway’s phone again. Maybe he hadn’t heard the two prior messages and would answer this time.

  On the third ring, someone picked up the phone and a man’s voice said, “Mr. Hofstedder, I have made it clear through the years that I give no interviews.”

  Marty plowed ahead. “I won’t quote you. I wondered if you still held out hope that you would see them again.”

  “That sounds like an interview question.” The receiver went down with a sharp click.

  He stared at his phone for a moment. None of the articles at the time suggested that Samantha had a difficult relationship with her father, but Marty wondered if the reason Halloway never spoke to the media was because they had fought before she left.

  He went back to handwritten notes from ten years ago. Earlier ones had not survived a file purge at the News, but since then a smarter publisher had realized that the case could become active again. Though probably only if a body were found.

  A marginal note listed Rose McCaffery as someone who worked at a dance studio where Cherry had taken lessons. The number listed no longer worked. She likely had a cell phone now. He went to the paper’s paid subscription for phone and address listings and came up with a more current number.

  Rose answered on the second ring and listened to Marty describe his plans to write about Cherry’s upcoming birthday and the anniversary of the disappearance.

  After a pause, she said, “She was a sweet little girl, but it was a long time ago. I don’t really have anything to add.”

  “I remember you previously said she was excited about a new dance. I wondered if you remembered who dropped her off or picked her up at your studio. Always her mother?”

  After several seconds, Rose blew out a breath. “Usually her mom, occasionally a man I think was her boyfriend, though he could have been just a friend.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Karl Hindberg.”

  Marty racked his brain. “That’s a familiar name but I can’t quite place it.”

  “He runs the library. Quiet now, but back in the day he knew how to have a good time.”

  “Did Cherry seem to like him?”

  Rose said nothing for a moment. “It sounds more like you’re investigating a crime than doing an update. Do you know something other people don’t?”

  “I’m sorry. Reporters can be brash. I hiked near their cottage recently. So peaceful. I can’t imagine Samantha leaving it by choice.”

  “I only knew her as a mother who was happy her daughter liked to dance. It did seem…odd that she never told Cherry they were leaving. I can’t imagine that bubbly child would have kept a secret. Even if it was just a weekend trip or something.”

  “I appreciate you talking to me. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “Hard to imagine after all this time, but I hope you find they’re living happy lives someplace else.”

  He tapped his pencil on his desk as he thought about who to talk to next. Probably Hindberg, but he didn’t know much about the man.

  He went to Facebook and found Hindberg easily, but little was visible without being his friend on the platform. It showed where he lived and went to high school, which Marty knew, and that he was a librarian. It didn’t say specifically where he worked. What little there was spoke of a responsible, even staid, man in his late thirties.

  The page did list some of his other friends, including the city’s budget manager, Clinton Evans, who Marty was friends with.

  Marty went to Evans’ page. He had accepted the man’s friend request as he did for anyone in Maple Grove. For that reason, his own posts didn’t reveal a lot about his personal life, not that it was terribly exciting.

  Evans used Facebook to document much of his life, including any party he attended, birthday events, and the town Fourth-of-July parade, where he posed as Abraham Lincoln every year. Tall and rail thin, he fit the role to a T.

  More interesting were photos from a high school reunion party two years before. Marty did some quick math. It was the twenty-year reunion, which made Hindberg closer to forty than Marty had thought. Two years or three years older than Samantha, whose class had scheduled their twentieth for the coming June.

  Most of the class photos were the typical group shots with women looking terrific in stylish dresses and men, often with a beer in their hands, appearing to care less about how history recorded their progress through life.

  Someone named Lou Ferrelli posted a photo of Hindberg standing next to the makeshift bar with a can of Coke. The caption was, “KH with his new brand of Coke.” Under it someone wrote “the calmer Karl.”

  Below that photo someone else had added a picture of a younger Hindberg with a face that appeared to be contorted in rage. Marty noted that Hindberg held a small, triangular flag on a thin dowel, meaning the photo was likely taken at a football game or similar event. In a town the size of Maple Grove, Friday night football was a huge spectator sport, even for adults.

  Under the face-of-rage picture were several comments. One said, “Madman at work,” and another said, “The quiet Karl is a new brand.”

  Marty contemplated the photos. There were more comments about the librarian than some others, but he could have a lot of mutual friends with Clinton Evans.

  It seemed Hindberg had used cocaine in younger days, but that was hardly unusual. The calm exterior visible today could be very different from his younger self, but that again was true for many people. Interesting that a couple people commented on it.

  He wished he could see Hindberg’s posts without friending him, but no dice.

  Marty decided to give Sheriff Montgomery a chance to weigh in on the upcoming twelfth anniversary of Samantha and her daughter’s disappearance.

  He cut off Marty mid-sentence. “Nothing has changed in the last few years, Hofstedder. Wish it had.”

  “Guess the big change is the reporter asking the questions. I moved here to take the place of the guy who wrote the last update, and he didn’t fill me in beyond what he wrote.”

  “Sure, I’ll talk to you, but I’m not spoon-feeding you. You read the history?”

  “Anything I could find.”

  Montgomery grunted. “Then you know we told people to keep an eye out for them pretty quickly, because of the little girl. I personally tromped the woods around that cottage.”

  “Look in the cottage?”

  “Got permission from Hamil Halloway. Went through it ourselves and with him. His only comment was it looked neater than usual. Looked like they just went out for breakfast.”

  “No boyfriend she fought with, anything like that?”

  “No. Find another angle.” They talked for five more minutes, and all Marty learned was that Montgomery was fairly new with the Sheriff Department at that time and he was frustrated that none of the tips that came in were more than people thinking they’d seen the pair. “No rhyme or reason to any sightings. If people really see somebody, there’s usually a progression. Like see ‘em in Maryland one day, Virginia the next, Georgia after that. But nothing.”

  “Okay, Marty began, “I appreciate…”

  “Listen, Hofstedder, you’re from Baltimore. This is Maple Grove. Don’t sensationalize the daylights out of this.”

  “Somebody knows something, Sheriff.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Montgomery hung up.

  WHEN HOLLY WENT TO THE Coffee Engine to grab a sandwich for lunch, Digger sent an email to Franklin. She should have called him yesterday, but hadn’t thought to do it, and she never called him during his workday in DC.

  “Hello cuz. Marty and I walked up the mountain to The Knob this weekend, and he had some questions about that abandoned cottage. Was Samantha Halloway in your high school class? I don’t remember much about all of it except that she left with her daughter and never came back.”

  Digger ate her apple and a granola bar. The Internet in the office was a lot faster than at the Ancestral Sanctuary, so she did a Google search for Samantha Halloway. No article from the time she disappeared came up, but one that Marty’s predecessor wrote several years ago did surface.

  There had been no Amber Alert because no one offered clear information that Cherry had left against her will or was in danger. Simply being away with a parent, even one who exercised questionable judgment, did not count as being a child in imminent peril.

  The article noted that at the time there had been no information on what they wore, but that family members did believe that Cherry had taken her Barbie doll.

  The earlier piece also confirmed what Uncle Benjamin had said about her father receiving a few postcards from her, and gave the date of the disappearance as late in October. In the mountains, that could easily mean winter weather. She went to the weather.gov site and learned the temperature that night dropped to twenty-eight degrees. Certainly low enough for a small child to freeze to death.

  Near the end of the article was a link to the flyer circulated at the time of their disappearance. A relaxed-looking Samantha Halloway wore a deep maroon dress – or blouse, anyway – with a short gold necklace. Highlighted hair touched her shoulders in a gentle wave, and she smiled broadly.

  Cherry’s wavy hair had been styled for what must have been a formal portrait, and a silver barrette kept it from spilling onto her forehead. She smiled brightly. Digger wondered if the picture had been a gift for Samantha’s parents.

  Wording on the flyer named them and stressed that family members “sought information” on the pair. While there was no evidence that they were in danger the Sheriff Department wanted to “establish their location.” The department’s phone number and website were provided, but nothing else.

  Digger stared at the flyer for another moment. No mention of how to help search or where they were last seen. Everything about the disappearance seemed so sterile.

  She closed the screen as Holly returned from the Coffee Engine, and glanced at an email that popped up.

  Franklin had responded. “Not sure I ever talked to her. She was a year behind me, but you know how small the high school is. I remember she was one of two girls, maybe three, who sat at a table at the back of the cafeteria. I don’t think anyone bothered them, they just liked to be by themselves. One of the other girls might have been Maybelle. You aren’t digging into something that’s better left buried, so to speak, are you?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DIGGER LEFT WORK A FEW minutes early Monday evening so she could rush home to let Bitsy do his business. He didn’t like that she was leaving again, so she promised to bring him some leftovers.

  At the restaurant, Digger shut her menu before Marty finished scanning the Los Amigos’ offerings. He folded his menu and nodded to get the server’s attention. “You decided so quickly. Have you been here a lot?”

  “No, but I liked the chicken fajita, so why try anything new?”

  “New opportunities for your stomach? You might like the burritos? Maybe…”

  “Okay, I’ll take a bite of whatever you get, and I might let you have a taste of mine.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, which made his glasses slide down his nose.

  She ignored his supposed humor. “You know, there’s a place in Frostburg where you could get new frames.”

  “You sound like my grandmother.” He shrugged. “I need a new prescription. I’ll get it done one of these days.”

  The server brought a bowl of corn chips and salsa after she took their order, and Digger dug in. She hadn’t had anything since the granola bar. “Did you find any more articles about Samantha Halloway?”

  He regarded her for a couple of seconds. “I don’t get it, Digger. You knew that old cottage was there all this time. Why the sudden interest in what happened to Samantha and her daughter?”

  She thought for a moment. She couldn’t say, “Because Cherry Halloway is a ghost living in my house.” Instead, she said, “I guess it hit me when we were up there that they were here one day and gone the next. And it doesn’t seem that anyone put a lot of effort into seeing what happened to them.”

  Marty leaned back in his chair. “Sheriff Montgomery might disagree.”

  “What did they do?”

  “He didn’t catch the initial call, but he participated in some of the search.” Marty held up a hand when Digger appeared about to interrupt him. “I didn’t say there were intense searches. But they did talk to all of her friends and the teachers at her daughter’s school. They asked police locally and in Ocean City to look for her.”

  “Ocean City, Maryland or New Jersey?”

  “Maryland. Apparently, she liked to go there every summer. Only place outside of the county she traveled to, even if it was only a couple times a year.”

  Digger frowned. “I don’t remember Franklin ever mentioning the search.”

  ”Wouldn’t he have been in college by then?”

  “Probably first year of law school. So, at Georgetown University.”

  “So he was probably away at the time. I don’t mind thinking it through with you, but are you planning on doing something?”

  She shook her head slowly. “That little girl was eight. What if she’s alive somewhere in a lousy home environment? She has a grandfather who’d probably help her.”